


Sincerely, Me

by Chrisio



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Gen, Not Happy, at all, dreams of Santa Fe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 12:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrisio/pseuds/Chrisio
Summary: There are some things that are never meant to see the light of day. They're written or created, and then shoved to the dark recesses of the world to be forgotten. Some things are private, meant for certain specified pairs of eyes. Others are personal, never meant to be shared outside of the creator.Jack Kelly has both kinds of creations.Sometimes there are words, though those are the rarest of all to find. Stuffed at the bottom of a storage tube, however, is an envelope. There's nothing remarkable about it: it's just something simple, paper plain, and obviously unsent. Despite the underwhelming exterior, though, the letter inside is something special.It's a marker for one of the worst nights of his life.





	Sincerely, Me

**Author's Note:**

> Well this ended up being less emotional than I wanted. Hm. Oh well, things end up as they do.
> 
> I realize in the canonical timeline, Jack probably wouldn't be able to write as clearly and properly as it is here. However, for the sake of coherency, I think it's worth forsaking a little accuracy on that front. I tried making it sound like him as best as I could to compensate.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

There are some things that are never meant to see the light of day. They're written or created, and then shoved to the dark recesses of the world to be forgotten. Some things are private, meant for certain specified pairs of eyes. Others are personal, never meant to be shared outside of the creator.

Jack Kelly has both kinds of creations.

It isn't easy, hiding things on the roof of a multi-story building. It's even harder to do when there's kids crawling all over the place. But every one of the Manhattan newsies knows there's one tube they're not allowed to touch. Jack is an artist -- he's willing to share his art with anyone, as long as he likes them enough. He thrives on sharing, on connecting. But out of the many storage tubes littering the rails of the roof fire escape, there's one that isn't meant for prying eyes. It's quiet, unassuming -- just the way Jack likes it. He considers it almost ironic, in a way -- or, he would, if he was familiar with the concept. After all, the most important storage tube out of the bunch is the one that looks the most plain. 

It's just as well. That one that holds his past.

If someone nosy were to peek inside, they'd find rolls upon rolls of drawings. There are piles of sketches of kids, skinny kids in ratty clothing, sitting with desolate looks on their faces. There are papers of backgrounds, containing narrow hallways and bunk beds crammed into every available corner of rooms. There are rats dancing among the feet of people, scavenging for crumbs that were already picked over. Every line, every gritty stroke of charcoal, conveys the misery of its location and the occupants. Tragedy bleeds through every page, and, if someone were to go through all of them, it would be difficult to not feel horrified, if not claustrophobic to boot.

There are pages and pages of sketches like these. Scattered among the melancholy art, however, there are little things -- a picture of a bow, a dog, a city street on a sunny day. There's a drawing of an older man, though its lines are slightly faded from age. These things are few and far between, though they are treated no differently than the other works. It would take some digging to find all the little gems like these, but it would be a task well worth the effort.

And sometimes, there aren't drawings. Sometimes there are words, though those are the rarest of all to find. Stuffed at the bottom, however, if anyone was inquisitive enough to look, they'd find an envelope. There's nothing remarkable about it: it's just something simple, paper plain, and obviously unsent. Despite the underwhelming exterior, though, the letter inside is something special, containing a marker for one of the worst nights of his life. Its original purpose is long forgotten -- with its intended recipient happily trotting around the streets of New York once again, there's no point in letting its presence be known. However, with its shaky lines, its scratches, its scribbles and tear stains -- the letter certainly has as much of a story to tell as the rest of the drawings. Unfortunately, that story would stay hidden, muted as far as Jack Kelly could help it. It wasn't important in the end, after all. Things ended up working out. And he'd rather sing  _that_  story, the one of  _what-had-happened_  instead of  _what-could-have-been_.

The strike?

Won. Celebrated. Remembered for years, with faces and hearts glowing with pride.

The letter?

Forgotten. Hidden. Its contents never to be told.

Once in a blue moon, however, Jack digs it out. Out of a sort of routine, whenever he does this, the first thing he does is pause, his fingers sliding over the pale, smooth paper. After regarding it for a minute, he finally turns it over, opening the flap and pulling out the contents with sometimes-trembling hands. Carefully, carefully, his fingers brush over the charcoal scratched onto the paper, and soon he finds himself scanning the page, mouthing along as he reads over the words he was sure would be the last to his best friend:

 

* * *

 

_Crutchie,_

~~_How are you? Are you okay?_ ~~

~~_The strike is going alright_ ~~

~~_The guys are all worried about you_ ~~

 

_...I hope you're okay. Specs said he tried visiting you, but he couldn't find you through the window this time. Hope that doesn't mean anything bad. How's that shoulder, has it gotten better?_

_The strike's going good. We're definitely startin' to get to Pulitzer now. Davey doesn't know for sure what's gonna happen, but he won't shut up about it. Keeps sayin' how it looks like things are gettin' better. I mean, I can't really tell what's gonna happen, but Dave's smarter than me, so. Figure he knows what he's talkin' about._

 

~~_I lied._ ~~

~~_It was going good. I don't really know about that anymore._ ~~

_Crutch,_ _I messed up._

_I messed up bad._

_I think right now you're the only one of the guys who doesn't hate me with all their guts. ~~But you probably will, too, after reading this.~~ I just-_

_I gotta tell someone._ _You deserve to know what happened._

 

_I'm leaving. I'm leaving here, taking the train as soon as I can get a ticket. I'm going to Santa Fe, and I'm using Pulitzer's money to do it._

_Just- before you hate me, please, PLEASE let me explain. Let me say why. I don't care if all the other guys won't listen. They'll get over it, if ya just give them enough time. I just....I need to tell you. I want you at least to know why I'm turning tail and runnin' from this stinkin' place._

_And I know you know why I want to leave. You've heard it too much, when we're on the roof. I know you know. But this time it's different, I promise._

_Pulitzer played dirty._

_~~Not that I was expectin' anything different, really.~~ But...after we got fightin' with the bulls the first time, we all realized we needed an actual plan if we wanted the strike to work. We couldn't keep fighting The World and expect to win all by ourselves. So then Davey came up with the smart idea of holdin' a rally, let all the other newsies in the boroughs know about the plan. It was a good idea! He was all sure it would work, and then Race went runnin' to Brooklyn to let them know about it. Apparently sounded good enough for Brooklyn, too. You should've seen Racer come running in, I thought he was gonna hit the stair post again. He was smilin' so big, jumping around all excited. Kept yelling about how Conlon thought it sounded like a decent idea. And then word got 'round and soon everyone else started gettin' all excited too, and then the other boroughs started sending people, saying they'd meet up. Things were going good. That's when Davey mentioned bringin' Pulitzer in on the deal. What if he came to the rally and listened to us? It'd solve a lotta griping and if things went well, we could solve things right there and stop missing pay._

_Of course, bein' the respectable union leader I am, I went to deliver the message to Mr. Pulitzer personally. And that's where everything went wrong. Crutchie, Snyder was in that office. Snyder was there. I don't know how he knew I was gonna be there that day, but he was there, and when he stepped out from behind Pulitzer I got this feeling in my gut. I tried running but the Delanceys were right there and I couldn't move, and Katherine wasn't doing anything -- oh yeah, Katherine is Pulitzer's daughter. Who knew, right?? Smart idea, not telling us that. ~~At least she got her story.~~_

_And then Pulitzer started talking. He wanted me to go to the rally, tell everyone to stop the strike and disband the union. Said he wouldn't raise the price for 2 years ~~which I call bull~~  but if I did that, he'd pay my way out West. He said he'd give me more than enough money to make it to Santa Fe. And I didn't want to take it -- I said no at first, said they could drag me to the Refuge first before I'd tell everyone else to end the strike -- but then-_

_He threatened you, Crutchie. He threatened you and Davey and Les and Race and-_

_And I couldn't do it, Crutch. I couldn't. I couldn't let you all get dragged to the Refuge just 'cause of me. It's bad enough that you're stuck in there. I'm so sorry you got there in the first place. But if all of the guys got put in there just because I couldn't keep my mouth shut and play smart...God, I'd hate myself more than I do right now. Figured it's better to have all the guys hate me and think I'm scabbin' while they're walkin' around free instead'a them all being locked away in the Refuge._

_I took the deal._

_I didn't know what else to do. I don't know what else I could've done, I swear. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to take the money, I promise. It feels filthy. I feel dirty just thinking about it. I can't stop looking over at my newsbag -- it's sitting in there. Feels like it's mockin' me. And I hate every minute I know it's there. When I get to Santa Fe, I'm half-tempted to bury the rest of it under a rock and forget about it. But that's not sensible, huh? Gonna need the rest of it to get settled and all that. Santa Fe ain't just a train station._ _  
_

_...I miss you. You'd tell me to stop being dramatic right now._

_Hey, look at what's happenin' when you're gone, huh? Feels like everything's falling to pieces. You'd laugh at how soft I'm getting. And it's only been a couple'a days, too! I swear, ya must be some kind of glue or something._

_God, you should've seen the looks on everyone's faces. I coulda sworn Conlon was gonna soak me right there on the stage. Davey..._

_Anyway._

_Just....just keep hangin' on, okay? Just keep holding on. You'll get out soon. Either the guys'll bust ya out or Snyder'll let you go. He can't keep you in there forever. And when you're out...if you still want, at that point...come find me in Santa Fe. I'll keep a spot open for you. I'll tell everybody I can about you, and then as soon as you come strolling in from the train station they'll only take one look and know that you're Crutchie Morris, the one I keep yappin' about. Maybe I'll be able to find a horse by that point, huh? And then you and me can go do everything we talked about. We'll do it all. And then there won't be anything stoppin' us this time._

_Wouldn't that be nice, huh?_

 

_I have to go. The guys'll be back soon. Figure they won't want me to stick around anymore after that little show at Medda's. I gotta pack up my stuff and find somewhere else to sleep until I leave._

_Crutch, I get it if you hate me now. I do. I just..._

_I'm sorry._

_See ya around, kid._

~~_Your brother_ ~~

~~_Your **best**  friend_ ~~

 

_Jack_

 

* * *

After reading, he usually shakes his head, sometimes sighing, sometimes both. Then he carefully slides the paper back into the envelope before closing the flap, reaching down among his drawings to carefully set the letter back in the bottom of the tube.

Some things are never meant to see the light of day. Jack Kelly's heart, once drowning in grief on a warm summer's night, is one of them.

It stays hidden, stuck in the shadows of times gone by.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at my tumblr!: [@Schmilliam](https://schmilliam.tumblr.com/)


End file.
